


How You Play the Game

by cleromancy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, Alternate Universe - Teachers, F/F, F/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 19:51:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1440718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleromancy/pseuds/cleromancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>English high school AU. Jon's a Bio teacher and a football coach, Ygritte coaches a rival school's team, Sansa's an English teacher, Margaery's an influential school board member’s granddaughter, and Cersei's a terrifying soccer mom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How You Play the Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starked/gifts).



> To avoid confusion—this story is set in England by request, and English high schoolers would be aged between 11 and 16; I fucked around with canon ages to make the story work. I also arbitrarily gave Ygritte a last name. Please try not to think too closely about the way the dynamics and histories between Houses would translate to this AU, because it won't make sense and you will get a headache. 
> 
> Warnings: Maybe a bit of second-hand embarrassment? Brief mention of dissection. Slight parental issues. 
> 
> For Max. Huge thanks to Chris, Fae, and Ezra for all the help.

_Thursday_

The fifth football game of the season is in two days, and Jon's starting to feel good about their chances. The team has been putting in longer hours, harder training, and they've visibly improved from the beginning of the season. There are kids who'd never played a game before in their lives before this year, but you wouldn't be able to tell now. The improvement is far greater than Jon had hoped—unmistakable growth in endurance, focus, and cohesiveness as a unit. It’s really impressive, and Jon’s incredibly proud of all of them. He’s starting to think they almost stand a chance against Ygritte Chojnacki's Terrors.

Maybe. 

Regardless, it's nearly the end of practice, so the kids split into two teams—shirts vs. white pinnies—for a scrimmage. It starts out well, the kids focusing on the new offensive and defensive techniques they’d been drilling, up until Edric Storm smacks hard into Myrcella Baratheon when he goes to steal the ball. She stumbles, caught off balance, only barely managing to catch herself before she falls. Jon blows a sharp blast on his whistle. 

"Alright, Myrcella?" he calls. "You need a minute? Some ice?" 

Myrcella shakes her head. "He only barely hit me." 

Jon searches her face. Myrcella's lied about injuries before, most recently continuing to play on a twisted ankle during a match after assuring him she was fine. It aggravated the sprain, and she wound up having to stay out of play for a week longer than she would’ve had to otherwise. Jon has his own suspicions about why she lied, but he doubts he would have much luck impressing upon Cersei Lannister that pain does not always equal gain. Instead, he's been trying to get Myrcella to understand that it's okay sometimes to sit things out. Hopefully at least some of it's getting through to her. 

"Really, Coach," says Myrcella, looking him straight in the face.

After another moment of scrutiny, Jon nods. 

"Alright then. Storm, I keep telling you, watch the elbows," he says. "We'd really like to avoid giving the Terrors penalty kicks if we can help it." 

Looking sullenly at the ground, Edric makes a vaguely assenting noise. Considering how much worse Edric used to be at taking criticism, Jon deems that good enough. 

"And—Reed," Jon says. "Remember to keep your eyes on the ball. There's ten minutes left of practice." 

Jojen jolts visibly out of his daydream. "Sorry, Coach," he says. "I was just thinking about—if the Abrahamic God knows what decisions we're going to make before He creates us, how can there be free will?" 

Jon stares down in bafflement at Jojen's serious little face, speechless. Where did _that_ come from? Why on Earth did Jojen feel the need to bring it up now? The idea that the minutia of a football practice is predestined is alarming, certainly; assuming the existence of an omniscient deity, something could have decided that that at this moment Jon would wipe sweat off his forehead, could have planned for Jon to blow his whistle. Each of Jon’s tiniest moments could have been predetermined—would that mean he’d never made any choices of his own at all? 

A bit dizzy, Jon shakes his head to clear it.

Then Jon looks down only to see twenty-some expectant faces, all avidly watching the exchange between Jon and Jojen. Ever since it came out that Jon and Jojen know each other outside of school, their relationship has a subject of interest to the rest of the team. Jon's heard, obliquely through teacher's lounge gossip later verified by Bran, that kids keep badgering Jojen to tell them stories about what Jon's like when he isn’t teaching. One even went so far as attempted bribery. Jon would be more concerned, except all Jojen would tell them is that Jon doesn't know how to catch frogs. 

Newly aware of his curious audience, Jon tamps down on the theological crisis and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"Take a lap, Reed," he says, muffled by the hand in front of his face. 

Jojen nods agreeably and jogs off.

"The rest of you," Jon says wearily to the group that had gathered around to watch the Jon and Jojen show, "I need you to focus. The match is on Saturday, and _I_ think you’re ready, but I need you to act as though you’re ready as well." 

"Excited for the match, Coach?" pipes up Lommy Greenhands in a sly tone that Jon doesn't trust.

“Why should he be?" little Shireen Baratheon asks, confused. "Is anyone special going to be there?"

"Just _Coach Chojnacki,_ " sing-songs Edric, sulkiness at Jon’s earlier reprimand apparently forgotten.

Jon’s apprehension deepens. Hoping to get the group back on track and away from dangerous subjects, he clears his throat. “I think we’re done with the scrimmage for right now. Myrcella, will you go round up the balls?” 

"Coach wants Coach Chojnacki to round up _his_ balls," stage-whispers Lommy.

Quiet titters and hushed whispers spread through the group like ripples in a lake, delighted gossip resounding through all of them, except for Shireen, who still looks perplexed. 

Ears burning, Jon claps his hands together to regain their attention. 

"Alright!" he announces, trying to will the blush away. "Let's run some drills before we warm down. Storm, Greenhands, you've bought your teammates suicides."

Groans rise up from the kids, along with a couple peevish _Thanks, Lommy_ -s and _Nice going, Edric_ -s, but they all line up and wait ready for the whistle to start. 

 

_Friday_

Friday is lab day, and today Jon’s classes dissected cow eyeballs, so instead of having lunch in his… _fragrant_ classroom, he heads to the teacher’s lounge. Sansa’s at her usual table with a pile of essays; when she notices Jon, she waves him over. He’s got a stack of papers to grade too—still hasn’t gotten through last week’s lab reports—so they eat and work without much conversation, until Sansa snorts, breaking the companionable quiet. 

"Oh, Jojen," she says fondly. 

Glancing up, Jon swallows his mouthful of his sandwich. "What'd he do?" 

"He went off on a tangent about taxidermy," Sansa says. "In an essay about _Romeo and Juliet._ " 

"Jojen’s into taxidermy now?" Jon asks. He pauses. "Rickon must never find out." 

"I shudder to think," says Sansa. "Remember when Jojen introduced him to bluegrass? If I never hear a banjo again it’ll be too soon." 

“That was how his whole demonic possession phase started,” Jon says. 

“Was it?” 

“Some of the songs were about Hell,” says Jon. “And one thing lead to another and then he was pretending to be possessed all the time.” 

“Well, that explains that,” says Sansa, and then a profoundly disturbed expression crosses her face. “What kind of interests would taxidermy open the door for?” 

“Let’s hope we never find out,” Jon says grimly.

Sansa nods fervently. “Bran’ll keep Rickon from hearing about it, I’m sure,” she says. “Although—I do wonder how Jojen comes up with these hobbies.”

"Good question. Did I tell you—last week Jojen stopped practice to talk about how everything’s made up of empty space," Jon says. "I'm _still_ trying not to think about it." 

"It bothers you that much?" asks Sansa. 

"Everything we think of as solid is mostly empty space," Jon says helplessly. "There's a microscopic amount of space between the atoms of any two given objects, so nothing ever really touches anything. This table isn't touching our lunches. Our feet aren't touching the floor. And the floor? Is mostly empty space. It's mostly made of _nothing_. How does that not bother you?" 

Throughout Jon’s rant, Sansa’s eyebrows climb higher and higher on her forehead; by the end, they’re raised so far they’re in danger of disappearing into her hairline. To her credit, though, she mulls Jon’s question over thoughtfully before answering.

"Mostly because for all intents and purposes, I _am_ touching the floor," she says finally. "It's a scientific reality that doesn't functionally impact my life." 

Jon sighs. "I can't figure out if this stuff is really bothering him, or if he's just trying to antagonize me," he says. He picks up his thermos, which his mind helpfully points out is also made of empty space, and takes a sip of hot tea.

"He doesn't ask me about those things," Sansa says. "Maybe if you didn't let it get to you?" 

Groaning, Jon puts down his thermos. "I'm going to have him in my class next year, aren't I?" 

"He's a good kid," Sansa says, hiding a smile.

"No, he is," Jon says. "But I’m not sure how to get him back on track from the inevitable existentialism without making him run laps." 

Sansa purses her lips for a moment, thinking. "Push-ups?" she suggests. 

While Jon's considering this, the door to the teacher's lounge opens, with Sam backing his way into the room, precariously balancing two steaming styrofoam cups on several binders stuffed with papers. Noting his trouble, Sansa jumps up to help, quickly easing one of the binders and both of the cups out of Sam’s hands, successfully keeping them all from toppling onto the floor. 

"Thanks so much, Sansa," Sam says, sighing in relief. "That was about to be a disaster." 

"It's nothing," Sansa says. 

"Just missed a bit of scalding and irreparable water damage, sure," Sam agrees. "I brought you chai, by the way." 

"Oh! This is for me? It smells lovely," says Sansa. "Will you let me pay you back for it this time?"

"Absolutely not," says Sam cheerfully. 

Sansa sighs as if vastly disappointed. "You are far too kind to me," she says, mock scolding. 

"Impossible," Sam says, and Jon laughs a little bit into his thermos, charmed. 

Startled, Sam glances over to their table, seeing Jon for the first time. "Oh, Jon!" he says, distressed. "I'm sorry. If I'd known you'd be here I'd have picked something up for you too." 

"S’alright," says Jon, gesturing with the thermos. "Brought my own." 

"Still," Sam says, frowning, and Sansa, gracious as ever, distracts him.

"Come sit with us," Sansa says. "We're grading papers." 

"Oh, _fun_ ," says Sam, pulling a face. "I should do as well." 

Smiling, Sansa shuffles some papers aside to give Sam space on the table so he can settle into the chair next to her. They start chatting about pooling their classes together for a joint lesson on Shakespeare, and the possibility of a field trip—a local theatre troupe’s doing _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ and _King Lear_ , neither of which they’re teaching. Jon listens to the conversation for a few minutes, but before long his mind starts wandering. 

Predictably, it wanders to Ygritte. He hasn't seen her in a while; they don't talk much in the weeks leading up to their teams facing each other. They’re both too competitive. Ygritte has this uncanny ability to turn everything into taunting, taking pride in her absurd segues into trash talk. Not even sex is safe—the last time Jon went down on her, she took advantage of his occupied mouth to tease him while he couldn’t retort.

"Jon?” 

Jon startles. “Mm?” 

Sansa and Sam are both staring at him with deep amusement. It looks like they’ve been trying to get Jon’s attention for a while now. Jon’s face goes hot.

“You didn’t hear a word we said, did you?” says Sansa, shaking her head. 

“You were on another planet just now,” says Sam. “What were you even thinking about?"

 _My not-girlfriend’s catastrophic failure at dirty talk._

Jon coughs. “Just the match tomorrow."

“Oh, of course, the match," Sam says, elbowing Sansa conspiratorially. "If by ‘the match’ he means ‘a certain red-haired someone—’" 

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Sam," says Sansa. "Jon's attention is focused strictly on football. He’d never even dream of consorting with the enemy." 

"You're right, Sansa," Sam says. "I have no idea what I was thinking." 

They turn to Jon then in unnerving unison, matching smirks on their faces. 

"I hate both of you," Jon says, beet red, and Sansa holds up her hand for Sam to high five. 

* 

After a very pleasant lunch with Jon and Sam, Sansa’s day takes a dramatic turn for the worse. First she has to take a student aside to work out options so that she doesn’t fail to class. Then, one rowdy class, she has to give _three_ different students detentions. Worst of all, after school an angry mother comes in with an essay her son had failed; it takes the better part of two hours to smooth over the situation, leaving Sansa miserable and drained. 

The stress gets to Sansa sometimes, as much as she loves teaching; she has to be sure to practice self-care to keep herself from burning out. Some days all it takes is changing into her favorite underwear or putting on a fancy dress she doesn’t often get to wear; other days, she soaks her feet in hot water and calls her mother. But days like today, Sansa unwinds by being as cozy as humanly possible: flannel pajama pants, fluffy monster feet slippers, and a pink fleece bathrobe belted together with her Batgirl snuggie to make the softest, warmest dress in the world. There’s hot chocolate on the stove, an order of dumpling soup out for delivery, and _Titanic_ in the DVD player. 

Letting herself look like a mess has a strange kind of magic to it. It's not something that comes naturally to her; she spends so much energy on the way she presents herself that she's had to work to be sort of slobby, even when there’s no one to see. It took a while before she could do it on her own, longer before she could answer the door for her take away in her PJs, but it’s worth it. Deliberately prioritizing her comfort over her appearance is a tiny rebellion against her perfectionism.

A knock at the door comes just as Sansa’s fishing through her pocketbook for tip money. She turns the stove off in case the delivery person is chatty, and shuffles over to the door. Turning the handle and tugging inwards, Sansa looks up only to come face to face with not the delivery boy, but Margaery Tyrell. 

Panicking, Sansa shuts the door. 

She stares at the closed door for long moment, not quite processing what she just saw. Margaery Tyrell. At her apartment. Alarmingly beautiful Margaery Tyrell. School board superpower Olenna Tyrell’s granddaughter Margaery Tyrell. Shit! She _just slammed the door on Margaery Tyrell._ Shit. Shit. _Shit._

Horrified, Sansa wrenches the door back open. 

"God, I am so sorry," she says frantically. "I was just—expecting someone else—" 

Margaery blinks, quickly covering her bewilderment with an apologetic smile. “No, it’s my fault for startling you. I should have called ahead, it was only—” she gestures at the paper bag in her hand. "You forgot your Wolfdogs jumper. I thought you might want it for tomorrow." 

"Oh," Sansa says feebly, automatically taking the bag when Margaery offers it, holding it limply in her hands. 

For a long moment, she stares down at it, overwhelmed, until she realizes abruptly that Margaery is still standing before her. She looks up, mortified. Margaery must think Sansa is ungrateful and _so_ rude, aside from being an _absolute slob_. 

“Thank you,” Sansa manages. “I—I appreciate you coming all this way, really.” 

Margaery’s eyebrows crease a little, regretful. "I'm really very sorry for interrupting," she says genuinely. “I’ll get out of your hair—” 

_Oh, now you’ve done it, Sansa._ Desperate to save the encounter, Sansa starts babbling

"Oh, no, please don't worry,” she says, and then cuts herself off, flapping her hands helplessly. "I'm sorry, it was really very thoughtful, I just—I’m just such a mess right now—" 

"Oh no, don't say that!" Margaery says. "No, you look really very cozy." 

"Well, I...am," Sansa says, and cringes internally. _'Well, I am.' Oh, God. Surely I can do better than that._

Then Sansa realizes that she _can_ do better than that. What’s stopping her from being dignified and poised in a snuggie/bathrobe dress? Nothing at all. She takes a deep breath, straightens, and exhales before smiling. 

"Thank you for bringing me my jumper," Sansa says, with all the graciousness she can muster. "I don’t have any other school spirit clothes. It was very thoughtful and appreciated." 

The shift in Sansa’s tone and bearing seems to catch Margaery slightly off guard for a moment, before she regains her composure, quirking one of her charming asymmetrical smiles. 

"It really _was_ nothing," says Margaery. 

"Well, you've come an awfully long way just to drop this off for me. Would you like to come in for a while?" Sansa asks. "I was about to start a movie, and I have hot cocoa on the stove." 

"I couldn't possibly impose," Margaery says, but her eyes stray to the room behind Sansa, and a hungry kind of curiosity comes into her eyes.

"It's nothing," Sansa says firmly. "I mean it. I have more than enough for two, and I could use the company, if you'd like to stay."

Margaery hesitates. "I wouldn't be intruding?" 

"Not even a little," says Sansa. 

"Well, if you're sure," Margaery says, "then I'd really love to stay, just for a little while." 

Sansa beams, stepping back so Margaery can cross the threshold. Luckily, Sansa cleaned her apartment just yesterday; so as Margaery peers around, a foxlike expression of fascination on her face as she soaks in each tiny detail, there’s nothing at all out of place.

“You can make yourself comfortable anywhere you like,” says Sansa. "Just give me a moment to change into something more... appropriate, and then I'll heat up the cocoa and we can start the film." 

Margaery turns around to blink at her. "Oh, don’t trouble yourself on my account," she says. "It's really not necessary." 

"Please," Sansa says, laughing. "That's very kind of you but I'm a _mess._ " 

"I mean it!" Margaery insists, earnestly touching Sansa's arm. "You look incredibly comfortable. I'd hate to make you change after I intruded on your evening in." 

Sansa raises her eyebrows, a skeptical smile playing about her mouth. 

“Really. It—” Margaery bites her lip, eyes flitting down to the ground before they meet Sansa’s again. “It’s a very charming look on you. Coziness.” 

Blinking, Sansa looks down at her haphazard ensemble. Nothing about it says _charm_ to her—if only she’d been de-stressing in a pretty dress!—but… Sansa glances up at Margaery through her eyelashes. “Charming,” she said—and she’d looked almost shy as she said it. Does Margaery think the Snuggie dress is cute? Or that _Sansa_ is cute? Maybe. Either way, at the very least, Margaery certainly doesn’t _mind_ , and Sansa really had been set on this particular kind of comfort. 

Well, what the hell. 

So Sansa stays in her pajamas, although when Margaery isn’t looking, she does hurriedly fingercomb her hair into some semblance of neatness. Before they settle in for film, Sansa pours them both steaming mugs of rich hot chocolate. As far as what to watch, _Titanic_ is out—Sansa’s _not_ crying in front of Margaery—but she discovers that Margaery shares her affinity for historically inaccurate period dramas, so they watch the Keira Knightley _Pride and Prejudice_. They split Sansa’s takeaway, and Margaery insists on paying. Initially, Sansa refuses, but just as the delivery person arrives, Margaery tricks Sansa into believing she’s got a cocoa moustache. She pays while Sansa’s in the bathroom, and when Sansa emerges, she gives her the most innocent of smiles, attributing the lack of chocolate on Sansa’s lip to a trick of the light. 

It’s the nicest evening Sansa’s had in a long while. Margaery is easy to relax around, Sansa’s initial self-consciousness fading in light of Margaery’s warm humor and effusive amiability. They only half watch the movie, mostly chatting lightly with periodic breaks to sigh over Keira. The movie’s over too soon, but it’s another half hour of conversation before Margaery admits that she has to get home to feed her cat. 

They hover together at Sansa’s front door, Margaery looking as reluctant to say goodnight as Sansa feels. 

Finally, Margaery says, “I’m… really very glad you invited me in.” 

“Me too,” says Sansa. “I had a wonderful time tonight.” 

Smiling, Margaery touches Sansa’s arm. “So am I. Thank you for having me.” 

“My pleasure,” says Sansa warmly.

Margaery bites her lip. She hesitates for a moment, then rises on her tiptoes to lean in and presses a warm kiss to Sansa’s cheek. Sansa’s breath catches, her face heating and her stomach swooping, before Margaery pulls back. 

“Goodnight,” Margaery says softly.

Sansa’s dizzy. “Goodnight,” she echoes automatically. 

With one last smile, Margaery turns and walks back down towards the parking lot, a slight sway to her hips. Overwhelmed, Sansa watches until she’s out of sight, then returns inside to collapse giddily against the closed door, giddy beaming up at the ceiling. 

 

_Saturday_

The day of the match, Sansa’s practically bouncing with the force of her good mood. She shows up early to help Jon and the others set up, wishing students luck and mingling with parents as she goes. When the tents and tables are all set up, Sansa goes to the snack stand fundraiser and buys hot chocolate. To support the team. And a little because the smell reminds her of last night with Margaery, but no one has to know that.

People start filtering in as it grows closer to the start of the game. Sansa chats with acquaintances and fellow teachers for a while until the bleachers fill in with spectators. Realizing the good seats would soon be taken, Sansa hurries to claim one. She doesn’t know the people sitting near her, but it doesn’t worry her; it’s always easy to make small talk with strangers during a game. It should be starting soon. She glances down at her phone to check the time. 

“Hello,” comes a familiar voice.

Sansa looks up. “Margaery!” she says, delighted. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” 

"I thought I might come to this game," Margaery says. 

It might be Sansa’s imagination, but Margaery almost sounds sheepish. It occurs to Sansa that Margaery could have just as easily waited until today to bring Sansa her jumper, if she were coming to the game. As far as Sansa’s aware, Margaery hasn’t been to any of the other matches so far this season. Sometimes—rarely—school board members and their families come to the games, and Sansa’s often seen Margaery at local school-related events, but high school football games don’t rank very high in importance as community gatherings. That, and it doesn’t really seem like Margaery’s sort of thing. A tingly rush thrilling down her spine, Sansa remembers Margaery kissing her cheek last night. 

She clears her throat, gesturing to the space on the bleachers next to her. “Would you like to sit?” 

With a smile that warms Sansa down to her toes, Margaery does. “I’d hoped I might see you here.”

“I was surprised to see you,” says Sansa. “Happy, of course, but—I wasn’t aware it was your sort of thing.”

Margaery coughs. “Well, as it happens,” she says, “I really… don't know all that much about football. I was hoping you might explain to me what’s going on.” 

Sansa smiles tentatively. "I’ll do my best." 

When the game starts, Sansa explains the basics while Margaery watches her raptly. It seems like Margaery pays much closer attention to Sansa than the game, her eyes slipping repeatedly down to Sansa’s lips. And Sansa thinks, although she can’t be sure, that they’re sitting closely for reasons that have nothing to do with the chill. 

*

It’s a good game, but the Wolfdogs lose to the Terrors, four to two. A loss, but not quite a slaughter, a significant improvement from the last match against the Terrors. Jon’s players held their own, which should be enough reason for Jon to be positive about the outcome. Still, he can’t help being disappointed. He’d been hoping to find out if Ygritte was as sore a loser as she is a winner.

Now the teams line up together for the post-match show of good sportsmanship, all players exchanging high fives and murmurs of _goodgamegoodgamegoodgame_. While Jon’s watching, arms crossed, Ygritte strides across the field, smugness radiating off of her like sunlight. 

Jon’s jaw clenches. "Coach Chojnacki.” 

"Jon Snow," Ygritte counters, grinning. Her teeth are very crooked, and very white. 

"Good game," Jon says stiffly, holding out a hand. 

Ygritte's grin, impossibly, gets wider. "For some more than others," she says, taking it. 

It’s not a handshake so much as a mutual attempt to pulverize the bones in each other’s hands. As childish as it may be for Jon to get so much satisfaction out of it, he can’t help it. His team may have lost to hers, but at least his grip is stronger.

When they release each others’ hands, Ygritte raises her eyebrows at him. "I see your best forward hasn't fully healed up that ankle." 

Jon frowns. Myrcella had stumbled a little on a kick—she got it past the goalie, but afterwards was limping slightly, so Jon pulled her out of the game. It was unfortunate, since she’s undoubtedly their best offensive player, probably the best on the team period, but there was really nothing else to do. 

“Thanks for the concern,” he says dryly. 

“Not concern,” says Ygritte. “Pity. If she’d been at her best, the Wolfdogs would’ve almost stood a chance.” 

She cocks her eyebrow at him, grin turning crooked and mocking, before turning abruptly on her heel to stride across the field, where the Terrors are still hooting and hollering over their victory. 

Glaring after her, Jon crosses his arms over his chest. She always has to get the last word, no matter what the circumstances are, because she’s _infuriating_. Moreso for how badly Jon wants to sink his teeth into her smirk. He’s so absorbed in glowering in her direction that he doesn’t see Cersei Lannister making a beeline for him until it’s too late. 

"Coach Snow," she calls.

Jon flinches. _Maybe there's still time to escape,_ he thinks wildly, but then Ms. Lannister is upon him, and it’s too late to run. Best not to take any sudden movements, either; she’s a lion in Louboutins, and she can smell fear. 

"Ms. Lannister," Jon says with a wan smile, resigning himself to his fate. 

"Coach Snow, it appears you have once again not taken my advice," says Ms. Lannister, nostrils flaring. "I wonder why you insist on doing so when _your_ chosen strategy has consistently lead to failure?" 

Her advice had mostly added up to directing every player save the goalies to take every opportunity to pass the ball towards Myrcella. Jon wets his lips and opens his mouth to respond, but Ms. Lannister apparently isn’t finished yet; she doesn’t let him speak before going off again.

“And _why_ , might I add, would you trade out your _star forward_ —the best player on your team—and keep her out the entire rest of the game?” 

It’s a fair question, one Jon has a good answer for. Unfortunately, the last time Jon mentioned Myrcella’s ankle, Ms. Lannister had more or less told her to walk it off, so. Probably better for Jon to take the fall. He doesn’t want to risk Ms. Lannister convincing Myrcella to push herself past her limits.

"Ms. Lannister, like I said last match, this is a high school football team, not a professional league," Jon says weakly, trying to look anywhere but Ms. Lannister's blazing green eyes. "Everyone on this team deserves to get a chance to play. It's a learning experience about the value of teamwork—" 

" _Teamwork_ ," scoffs Ms. Lannister. 

"Teamwork is _important_ ," Jon insists. "Your daughter is a very talented player, but it wouldn't be right to shunt the other kids off to give her more time on the field." 

"And what, praytell, is the learning experience in failure?" asks Ms. Lannister waspishly. 

Then, freshly changed out of her uniform, Myrcella pops up and saves Jon from trying to formulate a response about how failure _can_ actually be a learning experience. 

“Mother, it’s alright, really,” says Myrcella. “I wasn’t playing my best because—” 

“Hush, Myrcella. It's not your fault the team lost. You did very well _with the opportunities you had_ ,” she says, directing this last very pointedly at Jon. 

“Mother, no,” says Myrcella, despairing. 

“It’s alright, darling. I’m taking care of it,” Ms. Lannister says absently to her daughter before once again rounding on Jon. "Are you prepared to _listen_ to my suggestions this time ?" 

"Alright, Ms. Lannister," Jon says, trying to conceal his weariness. "What are your thoughts?" 

The best way to get this over with is letting Ms. Lannister talk herself out. There’s nothing to do while she rants other than holding his tongue and nodding when appropriate. Attempting to point out the flaws in her arguments only makes her angrier—and louder. He waits as patiently as he can while she reiterates that she is interested in “results, not excuses,” while exaggerating Myrcella’s talent and overstating the incompetence of her teammates. She also goes so far as to suggest that _she_ would make a far better football coach than Jon himself, her only rudimentary understanding of football notwithstanding.

Eventually Myrcella manages to drag her mother away by reminding her about the violin lesson she apparently has in an hour. Slumping in relief, Jon rubs at his temples for a moment before scanning the throng to see if anyone less aggressive wants his attention. His eyes catch on Shireen Baratheon, standing still at the edge of the field, Edric Storm with his hand on her shoulder. She’s searching the milling crowd of parents and supporters, a heartbreaking look of hope on her face. Jon's chest clenches in sympathy. Shireen’s father often too busy with work obligations 

When Edric’s guardian comes to collect him, Jon walks over to Shireen, alone on the fringe of the crowd, and stands next to her. 

"You did really well today, Shireen," he says after a moment. "You've improved a lot since you started." 

Shireen gives the crowd one last searching look, then sighs, giving Jon a sad little attempt at a smile. "Thanks, Coach." 

"I mean it," Jon says. "Your progress is really something to be proud of." 

She looks up at him, her face miserably beseeching. "I messed up, though. I let that goal in when that forward feinted." 

"That's true," Jon admits. "But you also successfully blocked their other attempts when you had the chance." 

"I guess," says Shireen doubtfully. 

"One mistake doesn't cancel out other achievements," Jon says. "And you're getting better every day." 

She considers this for a moment, her face crinkling up seriously, before Davos Seaworth squeezes through a knot of people, huffing slightly. When Shireen sees him, her eyes light up. She’s visibly struggling to contain her excitement; by the time Seaworth reaches her, she’s nearly vibrating with it.

“Mr. Seaworth,” Shireen says solemnly. 

Seaworth’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Miss Baratheon,” he says, equally solemnly. 

Shireen launches herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck; he catches her easily, making a theatrical _oof_ noise for show. He catches Jon’s eyes over Shireen’s shoulder and nods. Smiling slightly, Jon nods back before turning around to go. As he leaves, he hears Seaworth enthusing to Shireen about her performance. Jon’s smile widens. 

*

After the match, Margaery hooks her arm through Sansa’s as they walk out to the car park together. “Walking”—Sansa feels like she’s floating. They’d talked all throughout the game—which Sansa feels a little guilty for, since she _was_ there to support her students—and Sansa had made Margaery _laugh,_ and Margaery had bumped her shoulder against Sansa’s, their hands touching where they rested on the bench. When Margaery walks Sansa to her car, they stand together much like they had last night—reluctant, once again, to say goodbye. 

At a lull in the conversation, where the both of them were very obviously out of things to say but still not wanting the conversation to end, Margaery hesitates before looking up at Sansa through her eyelashes. “Sansa, can I tell you something?” she asks. 

“Of course,” says Sansa, heart suddenly thudding much faster.

“I know how football works,” Margaery says. “I know quite a lot about football, actually.” 

Sansa gapes at her. “You—?” She cuts herself off, a stab of embarrassment sending a hot blush to her face. “If you—why on Earth would you ask me to explain?” 

Biting her lip, Margaery tucks a shiny brown curl back behind her ear. “I wanted an excuse to talk to you,” she says. 

Sansa stops short, blinking. “Oh,” she says.

“Oh,” Margaery agrees.

“There might be easier ways to get my attention,” Sansa says, a slow smile spreading across her face.

“That _had_ occurred to me,” Margaery admits. “For example, if I took you out for dinner…?” 

_!!!_ , thinks Sansa.

"I'd like that," she says, trying and not entirely succeeding to control her excitement. “Very much.” 

“Tonight?” Margaery asks, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet. 

“Yes,” says Sansa. “Yes, tonight’s fine.” 

"Wonderful," says Margaery, the slightest tinge of relief coloring her voice. "I'll pick you up at eight?" 

“Wonderful,” echoes Sansa, beaming so widely her face hurts. 

After they part ways, Margaery driving off in her little lime convertible, Sansa has to sit in the front seat of her car for a while, far too elated to drive. 

*

The crowd begins to filter away, the spectators mostly finished with post-game socializing and the players starting to head home. Now it’s down to a few stragglers, as well as Jon and some of the others, sticking around to pack up the equipment. 

As Jon heads over packing away the water cooler and cups, he notices Jojen Reed still standing on the edge of the field, gazing across it with a little puckered frown. Meera should be along to pick Jojen up soon—unless Jojen forgot to tell her he _had_ a game again, which come to think of it is more likely than Meera not showing up. Jon taps a quick text out to her. When he looks back up, Jojen’s still staring at nothing. Zoning out is normal for Jojen, but Jon doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there, so it’d probably be best to check in. 

"Good game, Jojen," says Jon, coming up next to him. "You played well." 

"Thanks, Coach," Jojen says, but his conflicted expression doesn’t leave his face.

"Something bothering you?" Jon asks, concerned. It's common for kids to take it personally when the team loses, taking it as a reflection upon their performance or worse, on themselves.

"A little," Jojen says. 

"Well, what's on your mind?" Jon asks. 

"Thanks, Coach," Jojen says. "I was just thinking. Does it ever freak you out that you can't control your organs?" 

"It didn't until just now, Reed," Jon says, strangled. Through the headache starting to pulse at his temples, he wonders why he expected anything different. 

"I couldn't control my liver even if I _wanted_ to," says Jojen feelingly. 

He screws his face up in scrunchy concentration. Jon stares down at him, bewildered, until he realizes _Jojen is trying to control his liver_. 

Jojen relaxes, letting out a huge huff of breath. “See?” he says. “Nothing.” 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jon rubs his forehead for a long moment, then scrubs both hands hard over his face, exhaling deeply. After a long moment, he opens his eyes again to see Jojen staring up at him with a peculiar expression on his face. 

"Should I take a lap, Coach?" Jojen asks. 

"It isn’t not practice,” says Jon. 

"I know," Jojen says. "But it clears my head up." 

"Have at it," Jon tells him. 

"Thanks, Coach," Jojen says, and takes off running.

*

Later that evening at Jon’s apartment, Jon and Ygritte lie together in a contented sweaty pile. Ygritte's sprawled back on the pillows while Jon rests with his head on her stomach. He’d grabbed the labs he has to grade, trying to work while still getting Ygritte to pet his hair.

“One of my kids came up to me after practice the other day,” Ygritte says, scraping her nails idly against Jon’s scalp. “She said to me, Coach, what does Coach Snow say to his team after they win?” 

Jon tilts his head back to look at Ygritte, raising a questioning eyebrow. 

“I said, I don’t know,” says Ygritte. “And she said, no one does—it’s never happened,” and she’s laughing, silently; he can feel her stomach shaking under his head. 

“We’ve won three out of five games so far this season!” Jon protests. 

Ygritte scoffs. "'We've won three out of five games this season,'" she repeats in a high-pitched, mocking voice, amusement clearly audible through her tone. 

"You're twelve," Jon says before headbutting her hand, a silent demand for more hair petting.

Scraping her blunt nails against his scalp, Ygritte smirks down at him.

"You're just sore because your team lost and chemistry is better than biology," she says. 

Jon groans, exasperated. "For the last time, chem just involves more explosions—"

"Exactly!" 

"That doesn't make it _better_ than biology!"

"Yes it does." 

“Explosions for the sake of explosions isn’t what science is about,” Jon says. “Science is about discovery—”

“Wrong. Science is about what happens when you put dry ice in stuff.”

“Chemists are all the same.” 

“ _Eat_ me, Jon Snow.” 

Jon sighs. “I have to finish grading these labs first,” he says, and Ygritte crows in triumph.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I realized as I was editing... the running joke about Jon making Jojen run laps? It's a running joke... about running. A running running joke.


End file.
